Work Text:
She’s got tattoos, she sips like booze
And I keep going, she keeps me going
☀
This party, Becky decides, is going well.
It’s of a much smaller scale than she normally hosts at Blackbell Manor, but when it came to celebrating successful graduation from Eden Academy—a formidable feat in itself—it seemed appropriate for her to arrange a more intimate affair. Which entailed, in other words, her peers from Cecile Hall, as well as the select friendships Becky forged over the years while in her classes based on ability (the ability to score well on standardized exams, that is).
And since there’s no better way to celebrate graduation and the beginning of summer than—obviously—a pool party, that is precisely what Becky has put together: the massive Blackbell pool has been cleaned to perfection, the teal tiles surrounding the edge sparkling under the noontime gleam of the beating Berlint sun. The fountain in the center of the pool has been turned on, with its three layers of water elegantly bursting up and cascading down, and a faint rainbow occasionally breaks through the mist. Becky also has a DJ set up outside, close enough to the pool to be heard but not so close as to be an electrocution risk, not to mention two bartenders are currently hard at work behind an impromptu bar constructed nearby. The upbeat music of “The Twist” currently bounces around the pool, with a few people already laughing and dancing together, as Becky supervises the growing crowd.
Most of Cecile Hall has arrived already, which first means the bulk of her guests are here, which second means that Becky really needs to finish putting herself together so she can commit to lying down on a white-cushioned sunbed with her back to the sky and her heart-shaped sunglasses slipping off the edge of her nose.
Becky’s eyes search through the most recent bunch of arrivals—Damian, Emile, and Ewen, the ever fashionably late trio—who meander over to join Bill and Connie at the bar. She pretends her heart doesn’t sink in her chest at the noticeable absence: Anya, who told Becky well in advance that she’d be late because of a family commitment that morning and yet who Becky still desperately wishes would arrive any moment.
No, who she wishes would arrive now.
Becky forces herself to take a deep breath. She mustn’t get worked up. Certainly not at her own event. As hostess, she has an air of professionalism to maintain.
With one final glance over the crowd, Becky decides that people seem occupied enough—and not yet so drunk that she needs to worry about them busting their ass on wet concrete or, worse, falling and drowning in the pool—that she can step back inside to finish getting ready.
For this party, given its predominantly outdoor nature, Becky made the executive decision to keep all but the two rooms that lead outside to the pool itself off-limits to her guests (with select exceptions, of course, and by exceptions she means one—Anya), a choice she feels an unexpected surge of gratitude for as she slips inside her family manor and is suddenly surrounded by blissful quiet. The pounding of the bass still surges in faint waves through the floor, but the chatter of her friends and the lyrics of the music itself are no longer audible. She would say that she’s not sure why this silence is such a relief, but then she would be lying, and a Blackbell makes it a habit to never lie. Not to themself, at least.
The truth is humiliating in a way Becky used to (and still does) gush over when watching Berlint in Love: she, the protagonist, is able to relax in this silence because the noise outside is not yet pierced by the one voice she yearns to hear—that of her love interest.
Her girlfriend.
Anya’s bubbly laugh, the glitter of her green eyes, the way she twines her fingers through Becky’s—
“Nope, too embarrassing,” Becky mutters, her cheeks heating with a blush even as she shakes her head to snap out of her Anya-induced stupor. If this is how her mind is treating her when Anya hasn’t even arrived yet, Becky suspects she’ll be doomed for the rest of the party.
Stepping into the closest bathroom, which is of course as large as a small bedroom, Becky shrugs off her silky black floral swimsuit cover-up and hangs it on the back of the door, knowing she can return it to her summertime closet later. She takes a moment to study her appearance in the mirror: her neon raspberry nail polish perfectly matches the bright color of her favorite bandeau bikini, and she opens one of the white wooden drawers embedded in the pristine marble counter of the bathroom to pull out a tube of shiny lip gloss that will also pair appropriately. With her bangs pinned back by her classic silver clip, her dark hair spills over her shoulders, the ends tickling the middle of her back. Lifting an arm dotted with the occasional freckle, Becky purses her lips in disappointment at the insufficient tan of her skin.
Of course, that’s what spending time on the sunbed should resolve.
Having applied a glistening layer of gloss, Becky returns the tube to its designated drawer before opening a different drawer on the far end of the counter; from this she removes a small tub of body butter—her favorite because it contains just enough glitter for her to look magical at a glance, because it smells like cherry, and because it doubles as sunscreen. With expert precision, she smooths enough over her skin to prevent herself from getting burned but not so much that she appears like she had a bad accident at an arts and crafts facility.
Becky evaluates her appearance a final time: glossy hair, shimmering skin, color coordination across her nails, lips, and bikini? Oh, and not to forget her pink heart-shaped sunglasses, which she picks up from the far side of the counter and carefully settles over her nose.
Yes, this will suffice.
Putting away the body butter in its assigned drawer, Becky takes out from the same location a foldable handheld fan made of black fabric adorned with images of strawberries, raspberries, and cherries. Now… Now she is at last ready to attend to the masses.
The relaxed—yet still confident—smile that Becky puts on her face in practiced fashion disappears with a flustered gasp when she steps outside to rejoin the party and sees her.
Anya.
She sits on the edge of a navy blue sunbed, chatting with someone, Becky doesn’t even begin to process who because she can’t tear her eyes from Anya. She’s wearing a green halterneck bikini, the same swimsuit she bought with Becky almost a year ago and it’s so different—so good—seeing her wear it now: Anya’s wavy hair tied up in two messy buns, her bare shoulders exposing freckles to the sun as the uncovered skin all but begs to be adorned with more constellations, the peekaboo plunge of her top that shows off the curves of her chest, the way her stomach rolls over the front of the hipster bottom like Anya is Aphrodite reborn—
Becky thinks she’s going to faint, and not from the summer sun.
Snapping open her fan and snapping herself out of her (second! humiliating!) Anya-induced stupor of the day, Becky swishes a light breeze upon her blushing cheeks, as if circulating the air will help lessen their scarlet tint.
As her sense of reason at last returns, too, Becky’s awareness finally extends to the person who sits on the edge of the white sunbed across from Anya: Damian Desmond.
Of course it’s him. And even from afar Becky can see that his own face is painted with a blush that uncannily matches her own.
The notion of Damian—and not her—enjoying Anya’s stunning appearance up close is enough to kick Becky into gear, and she makes her way around the edge of the pool to sit down right next to Anya.
“Anya!” she exclaims, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. “I’m glad you made it.”
Anya sends her a quizzical look, amused. “I told you I was coming. I was just going to be late!”
Becky raises a brow. “And you expect me to trust your word?”
Damian snorts, and Anya grimaces, making a so-so gesture with her hand.
“Okay. Fair.”
Then Anya leans her shoulder into Becky’s, and the skin-on-skin contact is enough to make Becky’s cheeks match her bikini once more.
“How—How about we get some drinks?” Becky says, her voice an octave too high as she jumps a beat too quickly to her feet. At least if she gets some alcohol in her she can blame her red face on that or—or the sun. Two solid options for plausible deniability.
If Anya notices Becky’s strange behavior, she doesn’t comment on it, instead following Becky’s example and standing up. “Let’s do it!”
Tossing her fan onto the small table beside the sunbed, Becky manages to cast a nonchalant look toward Damian. “Sorry, I interrupted. Was there anything you needed to finish chatting about with Anya?”
Damian holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Nope. She’s all yours.”
And the selfish, envious, petty part of Becky sinks her teeth into his words. Yeah, Desmond. You missed your chance. She is all mine.
With what she hopes is a genuine smile, Becky loops her arm through Anya’s—ignoring how the feeling of Anya’s warm, bare skin against her own again makes her heart skip a beat—and drags her over to the bar. As the familiar Bop, bop, bop, bop! of the (annoyingly) popular song about a yellow bikini begins to float around the pool, Becky somehow manages to stop herself from continuing to ogle her girlfriend’s appearance and instead orders a drink.
“A Mai Tai, please.” Becky turns to Anya. “What do you want?”
Anya taps her chin with her free hand. “Hmm… Something sweet, but with lemon.”
The bartender tilts his head. “I could do a Sidecar with a sugar rim?”
Anya’s eyes light up—“Yes, please!”—and Becky can’t help but smile at the sight.
She still doesn’t know how she got so lucky. Or why Anya kissed her back that night. But she does know that it’s been three perfect months, and she hopes—hopes more than anything—that many more perfect months are still to come.
Glasses in hand, they return to the sunbed, and Becky sips her drink and glances over the party once more while Anya begins to enthusiastically explain what she was doing with her parents that morning.
“So to celebrate graduation, Mama and Papa wanted to get me a present”—oh, it looks like the final stragglers of her invitees have arrived, Meg and George, how excellent—“but I told them that since you and I and the boys are moving for university at the end of this summer, the best gift they could give me was more time with them”—hm, Connie seems like she’s about five seconds away from pushing Bill down onto a sunbed so her lips can find his, an interesting but not unexpected development—“so we started the day by taking Bond to the dog park, because even though he’s old he still likes to bask in the sun and the weather is so perfect today”—and Ewen just pushed Emile into the pool, but Emile got his hand around Ewen’s ankle and has now yanked him in, too—“then after we took Bond back home we went to a screening of a spy movie that was honestly almost as good as Spy Wars”—Johnny is twirling and dipping Sarina in an improvised dance to the latest song that started playing, but they aren’t too close to the edges of the pool, so they should be safe from a dangerous slip—“and after that we went out to my favorite ice cream parlor, and obviously I asked for all of the peanut toppings they had, and”—okay, Ken and Sue have just jumped into the deep end, and it looks like Damian isn’t joining Emile and Ewen in the water beyond sitting near the hot tub section and dropping his feet in, which is honestly par for the course for him—“are you even listening to me, Becky?”
Anya’s tone is teasing, and yet Becky cannot stop an offended response from escaping. “Of course I am! Please, you know I’m excellent at multi-tasking—”
Anya cuts her off by leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to her lips, and it’s a miracle and a half that Becky doesn’t startle and fling what’s left of her sunset Mai Tai into oblivion.
“I do know,” Anya whispers, still close to Becky, so close to Becky, the tips of their noses brushing. “But I also know that you’re cute when you’re defensive.”
“I—I am not defensive!” Becky sputters, pulling away, and Anya snickers.
“Right.” She stretches out the vowel. “Sure you aren’t.”
And Becky can’t even protest, because she would only back herself further into a figurative corner. She instead settles on narrowing her eyes and shooting Anya a playful glare as her girlfriend smugly sips her sweetened Sidecar.
“You win this battle, Anya. But a Blackbell never loses the war.”
Before Anya can respond—and probably win another battle, if Becky is being honest, because ever since they started dating Anya has managed to snag the upper hand over her more often than not—they’re interrupted by a splash of water from the pool, tiny droplets showering over the both of them.
“Hey!” Ewen calls, and Becky rolls her eyes. She should’ve known.
She grabs the right hinge of her sunglasses to dip them down her nose, giving both Ewen and Emile a pointed glare. “Do you need something, boys, that couldn’t have been brought to our attention without splashing chlorine into our drinks?”
Anya snickers, coming to the boys’ joking defense in a mock whisper. “I mean, at least we were basically done with them—”
Emile points at them both, grinning. “After we defeat Johnny and Sarina, we’re coming after you! Chicken!”
Becky’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Uh huh. And why would we want to—”
Anya has already sprung to her feet. “You’re on!” she calls back. She crosses her arms over her chest and smirks. “It’s so sad how you don’t even realize that you’ve already lost.”
“Big talk for someone who’s barely five feet tall,” Ewen jeers back, but the amused sparkle in his eyes reveals the lightheartedness of the jab.
Becky, however, is still not convinced that she wants to be dragged into a game of horseplay, much less one that will cause her to be submerged into the pool itself. She’s hardly had an opportunity to lie down and tan yet…
As if sensing her hesitation, Emile’s pointing finger shifts over to Damian, still sitting with only his feet in the pool. “If Blackbell doesn’t want to join, then you’re with Anya, Bossman!”
Damian’s face promptly colors scarlet. “Me—with Anya—in chicken?!”
Anya purses her lips, then proceeds to narrow her eyes and study Damian with an intensity that only makes his flush worsen. “Hmm… I suppose Sy-on Boy would make an acceptable partner as well.”
A horrifying image flashes in Becky’s mind: Anya atop Damian’s shoulders, her beautiful bare thighs around his neck, Damian’s palms firmly gripping Anya’s legs to secure her from falling—
“Absolutely not,” Becky says, and is mortified to realize those words left her mouth and not merely her mind. “I—I mean—” She tosses her hair over her shoulder, slapping on as confident a grin as she can muster. “A Blackbell never backs down from a challenge. Prepare to be destroyed.”
Emile and Ewen hoot and holler, exchanging a few final teasing barbs with Anya before they swim back to the middle of the pool and prepare to first take on Johnny and Sarina.
Becky collapses back onto the sunbed and sighs. “At this rate, I’m never going to get a good tan.”
Anya, still standing above her, laughs. “You don’t need a tan, Becky. You’re beautiful just the way you are.”
Becky mock gags. “You sound like Martha. Can a girl not just want a tan?”
“Can a girl not just get skin cancer?” Anya quips back, parroting Becky’s exact tone and earning an eye roll from Becky.
“It’s not like I’m not wearing sunscreen!”
Anya sits back down, scooching into a spot left open on the sunbed near Becky’s waist. “I noticed. You look sparkly. It’s nice!”
Heat tickles Becky’s cheeks. It’s probably been long enough now that she can safely blame the alcohol, right? “Thank you. That is precisely why I chose it.”
Sitting up with a sigh, Becky’s eyes flicker to the top of Anya’s head. “Sorry to ask this, but can you spare a ponytail? I don’t feel like going back inside to grab one.” And Becky absolutely refuses to get into that pool with her long, beautiful hair still down—the chlorinated water exposure would be far too violent.
“Sure!” Anya takes down both of her space buns, handing one of the stretchy black ponytail holders to Becky before re-securing her own hair in a single messy bun.
With practiced dexterity, Becky takes off her sunglasses and swoops her hair up into a ponytail, tying it firmly enough where she’s confident it won’t collapse from the weight of her soon-to-be wet hair but isn’t so tight she’ll end up with a compression headache later.
As her arms lift above her head to secure her hair, Becky can feel Anya’s eyes wandering over her figure, eventually settling on…
Oh.
Anya’s breath hitches, an inhale so tiny, so slight as to almost go unnoticed, before she reaches out, her fingertips brushing Becky’s right shoulder blade. “You have a tattoo.”
It’s more statement than question, more assertion than observation, and Becky tenses—because it’s true. She does. And the gentle touch of Anya’s warm hand on her sweaty skin is enough to give her goosebumps.
Becky swallows. She wraps the holder around her ponytail a final time before letting her arms fall. “I… Yeah.” She isn’t sure how much detail to provide. How much information is satisfactory, how much information is embarrassing?
“It was on a whim,” Becky eventually admits. The world seems to have stilled around them, quiet but for the splashes of the fountain against the surface of the pool, quiet but for the song of departing spring robins whistling through the summer breeze. “Well, maybe an impulse? Either or.”
Anya’s hand doesn’t leave her back. Instead, she carefully traces the outline of the small tattoo: each curve of the sheep’s fluffy white wool, the tiny teal bow around its neck, the slight extension of its black limbs.
Becky’s mouth is dry, now, yearning with something like thirst that she suspects to be unquenchable but for…
Becky steadfastly avoids staring at Anya’s pink lips, open in a small o as they are.
Anya’s hand eventually falls from Becky’s shoulder, and the world returns to life around them. “I like it.” She smiles at Becky, an expression tentative yet vibrant. “I never would have expected it from you, but I like it. A lot.”
The cheesiest, most cliché possible response tumbles from Becky’s tongue before she can stop it: “You could get a matching one. If you wanted. I’d—I’d come with you.”
For a moment, she’s six years old again, holding her schoolbag beside Anya’s as two identical keychains sway together.
Anya’s smile softens. “I’d—”
“Forger! Blackbell!”
Becky startles at the shout, turning to see Ewen on Emile’s shoulders as he vigorously gestures toward the two of them.
“We’re officially undefeated!” he yells across the pool, grinning. “So get your asses over here and lose!”
“As if we’d lose to you—you—losers!” Anya shoots to her feet, returning his jeer. “You’re about to taste defeat!”
Becky sighs, only half in jest, but stands and begins following Anya toward the pool. “What does defeat taste like again?”
Anya throws Becky a confident smirk—said confidence entirely unearned, in Becky’s opinion—over her shoulder. “Can’t tell you, because all I know is the sweet taste of victory.”
Becky lets out a loud, unladylike snort, and next thing she knows she’s lowering herself into the pool, hoisting Anya onto her shoulders, and wading them both toward the deeper end where Ewen and Emile wait.
The lack of straps on Becky’s bikini top means there isn’t even the thinnest strip of fabric between her shoulders and the bottoms of Anya’s thighs, Anya’s thighs that are so warm so soft and that tense with thinly veiled strength as she anchors her calves at Becky’s sides. Becky somehow (somehow) doesn’t allow herself to hesitate as she places her hands firmly atop Anya’s legs to ensure her girlfriend won’t go toppling over before the game has even begun.
“Ewen has the height advantage,” Anya leans down to whisper, cupping her hand over Becky’s ear, and Becky fights back a shiver at the heat of Anya’s breath. “But since we’ve both trained with my mama for so long now, I think we should win, easy.”
“Forget easy,” Becky says. She presses a light kiss to the inside of Anya’s thigh before cowardice can stop her. “Let’s just win.”
Fired up with a passion that Becky hopes was at least partly fueled by her kiss, Anya lunges forward with a triumphant cry, and Becky—laughing freely for the first time all day—leads them both forward through the aquamarine ripples of the pool.
Their battle ends up attracting quite a crowd, most of whom (unsurprisingly) root for Anya. Becky hears her own name shouted a few times, perhaps pity support because she’s the host of the party, but she’ll take whatever backing she can get. Either way, it’s more cheers than Emile and Ewen receive, so there.
Oh, and then there’s poor Damian, whose allegiances are so thoroughly split that he proceeds to get ragged on no matter whose name he calls.
(“C’mon, Ewen, Emile!”
“Sy-on Boy! The betrayal!”
“Uh… Go, Forger?”
“What?!”
“Forget her! We’re your best friends, Damian!”
“I take it back. You can all drown.”
“Hey! I didn’t say jack shit, Desmond!”
“Fine, Blackbell can live. But only because it’s her party.”)
Eventually, Anya—expertly taking advantage of her lack of height—manages to duck beneath Ewen’s outstretched grasp, grab his upper arms from below, and with a mighty shove knock him backward over Emile’s shoulders. The second the splash of Ewen’s body hitting the surface of the pool echoes across the yard, the crowd explodes into riotous cheers. Before Becky realizes what’s happening, Anya falls backward off her shoulders to join her in the water, swimming around to float in front of Becky. Because her feet don’t touch the bottom of the pool, when she reaches up to cradle Becky’s face in her hands, she ends up submerging them both, but Becky finds she no longer cares about her hair getting soaked as she lets herself be dragged down and pulled into a clumsy but tender underwater kiss.
Even through the chlorine, Anya’s lips still taste of sugar, and Becky is grateful this is the sweet taste of victory she was promised.
They rise out of the water, noses brushing as they both giggle, and Becky doesn’t complain when Bill reaches down into the pool and pulls them both back onto dry-ish ground.
“That was pure luck!” Emile protests, all smiles.
“Yeah! We demand a rematch!” Ewen echoes, but he, too, is grinning.
“We don’t play with sore losers,” Anya teases. “Besides, after all that, I need a drink!” She reaches down to give Becky’s hand a quick squeeze before she heads over to the makeshift bar.
Becky lightly elbows Bill in the side. “Why don’t you and Connie take them on, huh?” she says, quirking an eyebrow. “Make them learn what it’s like to lose twice in a row.”
A smirk twitches at Bill’s lips. Satisfied with the chaos she has sown, Becky returns to the sunbed where her sunglasses lay abandoned, sighing as she sits down and begins to gently wring out her ponytail. Her respite does not last long, however, as soon she glances to her right and sees Damian taking a seat on the sunbed across from her.
“Good game,” he says, and Becky is reasonably confident his words are genuine. “Don’t tell Ewen and Emile I said this, but they didn’t stand a chance against you and Anya.”
“I mean, I won’t tell them, but”—Becky snickers—“I think they already know.”
Damian chuckles. “You’re probably right.”
“Uh, yeah. Aren’t I always?”
“Ha! As if.” Damian smirks and flips her off, causing Becky to stick her tongue out at him. “Definitely not always. But…” His voice softens, and he turns his head away from where she sits. “You’re right about some things.”
Becky follows his gaze to…
Anya.
Her girlfriend’s cheeks are pink, flush like a rose, a tint maybe from sunshine or exertion or, knowing Anya, nothing but pure joy as she orders a drink. She’s clearly in rapt conversation with the bartender based on the wild gesticulations of her hands, based on how she rises up onto her tiptoes every so often.
“She looks happier, now,” Damian says, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze slowly shifts back to Becky’s, hazel eyes locking with brown. “You both do.”
For a moment, Becky can only stare.
You both do.
She smiles, soft and sincere. “Yeah. I think we are.”
Standing and flicking water droplets off herself, Becky moves to the other sunbed and sits next to Damian, gently knocking her shoulder against his own. “And if either of us know Anya as well as we claim to, I think it goes without saying that she wants nothing more than for you to be happy, too.”
Damian snorts and returns Becky’s shoulder bump. “Yeah, well. I’m getting there.” This time, Becky has no doubt that Damian’s words are genuine. “It helps to… have friends like you.”
“Sy-on Boy!” Anya beams at them both as she approaches from the bar, an already empty shot glass in her hand. “Sy-on Boy, you should team up with someone and face Ewen and Emile next.”
Damian rolls his eyes. “I’m not playing that stupid pool game.”
“It’s not stupid! You’re stupid.”
“What are you, five?”
“Five a few times over, sure.” Anya places her glass down on Becky’s previously occupied sunbed. “But whatever, be uncool and don’t play the pool game at the pool party. Not my problem.” Her eyes flit between the two of them. “Also, can I steal Becky from you?”
Damian nods, standing and thumbing toward where she came from. “Sure. I was just about to get a drink myself.”
And then it’s just Becky and Anya. The fluttering vibrato of “It’s Now or Never” begins to dance throughout the summer afternoon, and Anya offers Becky a hand.
“Come with me?”
When it comes to requests from Anya, Becky has always struggled to refuse, and soon Anya is leading her through the open door back into Blackbell Manor, soon Anya is pulling her into the same bathroom Becky got ready in a mere hour ago, soon Anya is closing the door behind them with her heel before she pushes Becky up against the marble counter and crashes their lips together.
Somewhere in the far, distant corners of her mind, Becky knows she’s a mess: her ponytail is halfway undone, her skin is sticky with chlorine sweat, her mouth probably still tastes like citrus rum, and yet all that matters right here, right now, is the feel of Anya’s body pressed against hers. So Becky returns Anya’s kiss with equal fervor, her hands finding Anya’s soft hips, fingering the bows attached to the sides of her bikini bottom before they drop lower to palm Anya’s strong thighs.
Eventually, Anya pulls away, though she loops her arms around Becky’s neck to keep their chests pressed together. “I’ve been waiting to do that since you first walked outside.”
Even though her back is to the mirror, Becky is confident her face is crimson. “You—what?”
Anya laughs. “It’s that red bikini. You’re hotter than—than the sun!”
Becky’s blush only intensifies, but she keeps enough of a hold on herself to reach up and flick the halterneck strap of Anya’s own green bikini top. “You’re one to talk. Seeing you in this almost made me pass out.”
Anya laughs again, though this time the sound is more of a smug snicker. “I mean, what was I going to wear—the tankini I bought with Papa? I don’t think so.”
Becky leans forward to kiss Anya’s nose. “Good call.”
She watches as Anya’s eyes drift over her shoulder, presumably toward the mirror, and Anya unloops one arm to run her hand across Becky’s back and press her fingertips against…
Ah.
“You didn’t have a chance to answer earlier,” Becky says, softly. “Would you… want to match?”
She feels Anya once again carefully trace the contours of the small sheep on her shoulder blade. Seconds later, Anya captures her lips in a fierce kiss once more.
“Yes,” Anya says, breathless, the second time she pulls away. She presses a gentle kiss to Becky’s jaw. “Yes. I’d love to.”
And then Anya is kissing her, again and again, and Becky can’t stop herself from grinning against Anya’s lips as she catches Anya’s hand that roams down her side to lace their fingers together because a firework explosion is what she feels inside and if this isn’t happiness—isn’t love—
Then it must be paradise, a different type of Eden, this high from which Becky never wants to fall.
☀
Girl, one look from you
What am I to do? What am I to do?